Evidence of What You Cannot See
by zihna
Summary: 30 looks into the lives of the team and what ties them together. T for language. No.4: Sam's going to kill him. He's going to shoot him and dance on his grave. He's going to do all of this and more if Deeks doesn't get out of his space in 5 seconds.
1. no 1 evidence

A/N: Hi everyone! So my other story did pretty well, and I decided to keep going! The other one isn't done, but I think I'm going to leave it for a bit, to step back and gain some skills.

These are going to be a series of one-shots based on a prompt table I have- all different characters, emotions, ect.

I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I do not known. All of this belongs to Mr. Shane Brennan.

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"Evidence of what you cannot see  
But what you hope for  
The world that holds your fate  
Is not visible  
Invisible." -_Evidence, _Everlife

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Prompt: 001- Evidence  
Characters: Henrietta Lange  
Word Count: 700

Her hands are small and shaking as she opens the drawer.

Dust clouds the air. The drawer is old and it's been years since she's opened it, years since she's _needed _to open it.

She sneezes, the dust tickling her throat.

The drawer is stuffed with papers. Some are ancient, yellowed, curled inwards. Others are a bit newer, still yellowed but not cracked, worn.

The most recent visible date is March 5, 2015. It's 2021 now, and she's eighty-something, her hands a mess of blue spider-web veins and wrinkled, puckered skin.

She didn't expect to live this long. _They _certainly didn't, and damn that still cuts like a knife, every single time.

She closes her eyes, briefly, feeling memory prick at them, wet and hot.

Carefully, she begins to look through the papers gathered in the desk, starting at the bottom.

1971. Her first partner. His name was Paul. She might have loved him, a lot. From the picture a man beams at her, wild-haired and bright-eyed. He has one arm slung around a little girl, maybe five or six, and the other wrapped around a woman's shoulders. The woman is scowling, but the girl is grinning. She was kidnapped, and the man, Paul, saved her.

It made the front page.

Paul was also killed by a drunk driver in '73 and it still hurts now, nearly fifty years later.

1984. Another partner. Her name was Lucy. Her picture is yellowed, crumpled, but she still sees the slight, curving grin and the curling hair. Lucy took down an infamous rapist all by herself, saved two young women, his next victims.

She died of cancer three years later.

1999. Jenny Sheppard. Red hair, sharp eyes. Not her favorite partner, but still. Jenny was _brilliant_—driven, fierce, fresh out of Paris with a gleam in her eye and something to prove. She didn't lose Jenny—rather, Jenny left her behind clawing to the top.

Hetty didn't see her again, not until 2008, when she was so _damaged_ the casket was closed. Even then she didn't get close because there was a sliver-haired man gritting his teeth at the thing and a brown-haired man pacing like a wild animal, scaring her off.

1999, not six months after Jenny. Miami heat ripples off this particular page, touching her face, her hands. She _remembers _for a second, so strongly she wavers, almost falls to the ground.

Sullivan.

She moves on.

2010. Brown eyes, young face, a sort of sheepish grin. Dominic Vale, with all his youthful enthusiasm. He was a hero, this is absolute.

He died in service to his country.

2012. Nate. Her Nate, quirky, intelligent, caring Nate, so desperate to prove himself that he went to fight a war that wasn't his.

They never found his body.

2014. Blue eyes, floppy blonde hair, a wide, pleased grin. Marty Deeks. Also a hero—he died for _her, _for Kensi, leaping fearless in front of a bullet like he was made of steel.

Needless to say, he wasn't.

2015. The last, final blow. G. Callen. He was the hardest to take, the closest to her heart. Perhaps it's selfish, but he was her _son_, in a way, and he was more important to her than any of the others.

She did not go to his funeral, and the day after, she handed Vance her resignation.

Her shaking old fingers rest on top of his face, stroking the yellowing page.

She should go back. Tomorrow is her eighty-third birthday. Sam will be there with Kensi, and Eric and Nell, and there will be a party, and the memory of heroes will hang around their heads like streamers, evidence of what they cannot see but _feel _so strong it chokes them.

Hetty sighs, closes her eyes again, fighting it all back, damming the flood.

_Soon,_ she says to herself, across the dusty years.

She sees them then, standing side by side, Paul, Lucy, Jenny, Sullivan, Dom, Nate, Deeks, and Callen, beaming like children.

_We'll wait_, they say. _We promise. _

She smiles then, old face wrinkling, crumpling like the papers. _I know, _she murmurs, closing the drawer, getting up to go back. _I have the evidence right here. _

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A/N: Thanks for reading! I have 29 more to go, so if you could review, I'd appreciate it!

-Blue


	2. no 2 i'm here

A/N: Oh my gosh, everyone, thank you so much for the reviews, story alerts, and favorites! This did way better than I thought it would, and I'm absolutely honored that you all reviewed.

This chapter is for to don't feel like logging in, who requested Kensi. I'm not sure if this is what you wanted, but I tried!

Also, thanks to Victim No. 5173, who pointed out some minor date errors in the previous drabble. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA. It belongs to Mr. Shane Brennan.

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"Now that I have found you, I will never leave you again." -Unknown

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Prompt: 002- I'm Here  
Characters: Kensi Blye, Marty Deeks  
Word Count: 700

He is pale and fragile-looking, strewn all over the hospital bed like broken glass.

She isn't used to this. Out of all of them, he's the most energetic, the bounciest, the let's-go-get-'em-guys-est, and _this_ almost-dead bullet-ridden shell of her partnerin not okay.

Kensis shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, staring at his slightly twitching body.

She is not good at this. She can handle assassins, terrorists, and the mob, but _this_, this is a whole different animal.

(This is her father, is funerals and cold and—)

Deeks makes a sound low in his throat, twists a bit on the bed. She stares at him, chews her lip.

Maybe this would be easier if he'd been killed, if this was a funeral—

_No_. That's just _wrong_. Her last partner died, Dom died, and Deeks is alive and she's grateful for it, really she is. Another death, so soon after the first, would be too much for the team, for _her. _

She's glad Deeks is alive. She's glad he's going to be okay. She's glad they were after her, because that means they didn't kill him.

He makes another sound, a bit louder, and his face scrunches up. His fingers curl tight into the white sheets, grasping at something invisible.

Kensi is frozen. She doesn't know what to do—this isn't like pointing a gun or cuffing a suspect. This is something she's never been good at.

Deeks makes an even louder sound, something like a cross between a moan and a cry. He thrashes a bit, tangling himself in nightmare and sheets.

He needs Hetty.

He needs someone who knows what to do, how to still a nightmare, how to _comfort_. Hell, even _Sam_ would be better here, in this situation.

But she, Kensi Blye, Special Agent and one-woman army, doesn't _know_ _what to do. _Should she wake him up? Let him fight through it? Leave the room and never come back?

There's another sound, low, keening, _harsh _to her ears and maybe she should run, leave him in his dreams and come back bright-eyed and false-grinning in the morning.

"D—" It sticks in her throat, hard, lumpy. It shouldn't but it _does_.

_They're just words, _she thinks, furious at herself (ashamed, too). _Come on, you can _speak _at least. _

More sounds, coming faster now, childlike, almost. She remembers, in a sudden flash like a bolt of lightning, that he doesn't have next of kin, no father no mother no siblings, no _anyone, _they are—_she _is—all he's got.

There's no one else to brush these nightmares away.

"_Deeks," _she whispers, forcing that lump out of her chest.

He doesn't answer her, instead twisting his fingers deeper into the sheets, knuckles white and tense, face drawn taut, afraid.

"_Dad_," he whimpers.

_Jesus_.

Stiffly, military-strait, she walks to the bed, presses her shaking fingers to his hot, sweaty forehead.

"Deeks," she says again, a bit louder.

He doesn't answer, moans, twists under her fingers. He's too warm—maybe she should call a nurse.

"Deeks."

No answer.

Slowly, hesitantly, ready to bolt at a second's notice, Kensi pushes him over, rolls him a bit so she can fit flush against him in the bed. He makes a sound in the base of his throat—she can feel it—and _curls_ closer, half-smothering her, good Lord he's a freaking _puppy, _a blonde, floppy puppy.

"It's—it's okay, Deeks," she says, unsteady.

There's another sound, this one even softer. He shifts, loosens his death grip on the sheets. The nightmare is slipping away.

Foggy eyes blink open, still half-lost in dream, and Kensi manages to pull her lips into something like a smile.

"It's okay, Deeks. I'm here," she says, managing to show both compassion and if-you-tell-Sam-or-Callen-I-will-tear-you-to-pieces-Martin at the same time.

"Kens?"

"Go to sleep," she murmurs, as he curls tighter (big, floppy, _annoyingly warm _puppy). "I'm here."

"I know," he says thickly, eyes drooping. "You're always here."

And he slips back into sleep, drooling a bit. His face is smooth again, his fingers loose, muscles relaxed. Whatever—whoever—was hurting him is gone now.

Kensi hides a smile in his shoulder. Maybe she's not so bad at this after all.

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A/N: Thanks for reading!

-Blue


	3. no 3 funeral

A/N: Thanks for the support! ~~ :D It's great that you all are enjoying yourselves. I kind of liked how people seem to like puppy!Deeks. Because, you know, he _is_.

It's Callen's turn! I hope I got him right- he is so hard for me (they all are, really) to get because of all his Issues.

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS:LA or its awesome characters. They belong to Mr. Shane Brennan. Who is awesome.

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"Remembering is an act of resurrection, each repetition a vital layer of mourning, in memory of those we are sure to meet again." -Nancy Cobb,_ In Lieu of Flowers_

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Prompt: 003- Funeral  
Characters: G. Callen  
Word Count: 840

Callen has a memory. It's not a sudden thing, a flash flood drowning him in the past, a lightning bolt to his brain, all flickering light and white white heat, noise bursting wild and chaotic.

No, this memory isn't like that. It's not triggered by smell or sound—he doesn't go rigid in the car like Sam does, sometimes, sudden desert wind and heat and gunfire flashing in his eyes. It's not a vivid memory, crystal clear and sharp—he doesn't wince at things like shotguns and empty beer bottles like Deeks or slide out of the room until he can remember how to breathe properly.

His memory is faded and soft, and it only comes when he's sleeping, and not his usual light-cat-nap-ready-to-jump-up-and-shoot-a-bitch sleep either. It only comes on those rare occasions when he's well and truly out, drooling on someone's (usually Sam's or Hetty's) couch.

The memory—dream, really—rises slow and steady like the ocean, like the tide creeping up and up so carefully that you don't realize you're drowning until salt floods your mouth and murky brown water closes over your head.

It starts slow, mostly just muted color, rolling and shifting around him, spreading out to the corners of his vision.

Shapes come next, blooming big and soft like flowers. Green-leafed trees, worn grass, gray-brown-white tombstones, black-dressed men and women. Everything is filmy like he's looking through an old rain-drenched window. There's a hand wrapped firm around one of his wrists (he can't help but think of handcuffs) and another vice-like on his shoulder.

He can't run.

The air his hot, thick, and salty, stuffing his mouth full, baking him from the inside out.

He can't breathe.

He's walking, legs way too short, half-dragged by the hands holding on to him. Up ahead there's a blurry awful shape—a coffin, gold-striped and deep mahogany—carried by two men whose faces are soupy and distorted.

His head is bowed and what might be strands of hair—way too long—tickle his eyelids. He can see his own feet, trapped in shiny little black shoes, crumple the worn grass. Blurs of color that might be flowers slide by.

He's walking through a graveyard. He can taste the sea in his mouth.

That's the one clear thing—the smell of the ocean, the taste of it, strong, as strong as it can be in L.A.

Something hard is digging into his free (way too small) hand, all sharp points and angles.

He can't lift his hand or open it to see what it is.

There are people pressing around him, not many but enough. A lot of them are kids, like he is (except he's _not_), dressed in black. He can't see their faces.

The rag-tag procession, headed by that rich coffin, finally comes to a stop. A faint wind rustles the trees and makes the taste of sea salt swell against his tongue.

There's a man without a face saying something and it's like those old cartoons were the noise comes out all garbled, like there's something stuffed in his ears and he can't hear a single thing.

The hand on his shoulder is tight and the one on his wrist tighter, and even though he wants to run, wants to run _so fucking bad _he can't, he's trapped, pinned.

The thing in his hand is _burning_, cutting little holes into his skin.

They're putting the coffin in the ground, slow, tossing white blurs over it, chanting in the words that he can't hear or understand.

The hands squeeze tight, so tight they're searing into his bones. He struggles, twists, but the hands, the hands—

There's a sudden crystal-flash of clarity, of bright eyes and a smile he knows _so well. _

"Relax, little brother," says a voice he _knows _and _oh god oh god it's _her.

Against his grown-up will, his kid-body relaxes, goes loose. Whatever's digging into his hand falls to ground and he tries to watch those bright clear eyes as the dream bubbles and turns to soup around him.

Those eyes stay with him until he wakes.

Callen wakes up with the taste of salt in his mouth and a hurt in his hand he can't explain. He closes his eyes, stares at the ceiling, trying to pull information from the dream, just like he was taught.

When he was a boy, he went to a funeral. His sister was there.

And then nothing. Nate would say that it's just a dream, but it _can't _be. He's G. Callen—he doesn't _have _normal dreams. His dreams are memories, mired in the past. So this, this _has to be something_.

(A lost link, the way home, something, _everything—_)

Callen is left sleepless, the memory of hands seared into his bones and bright eyes seared into his mind, clinging tight to the dream that's slipping from his fingers like seawater, hoping—_praying, _if he knew how—that the funeral was not just a dream, that, one day all those years ago, he had his sister.

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A/N: Thank you for reading!

-Blue


	4. no 4 puppy love

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! They make me haaaaaaaaaaaappppppy. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA or its characters. They belong to the marvellous Mr. Shane Brennan.

Summary of the drabble below: Sam has been shot and Deeks is over-protective in a floppy, annoying way. Sam is going to shoot him.

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"Don't ask me to leave you and turn back. I will go where you go." -_Bible_

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Prompt: 004- Puppy Love  
Characters: Sam Hanna, Marty Deeks  
Word Count: 985

Sam is going to kill him. He's going to shoot him and string his body up and dance on his motherfucking grave. He's going to do all of this and _more _if Deeks doesn't get out of his space _in the next five seconds. _

Oblivious to the rapidly approaching death-by-Sam looming over his head, Deeks grins widely, bouncing (_bouncing!) _at Sam's side like some sort of floppy way-too-energetic guard dog.

"Sam," he says, for probably the thousandth time that day. "You should probably sit down now."

"I'm _fine,_" Sam hisses.

Deeks gives him that baleful look again. "You just got shot," he says. "You should be resting."

"_I'm fine._" There's enough venom in Sam's voice to make terrorists roll over and _die_. Deeks, however, grins widely. If he was a dog, his tail would be wagging, Sam just _knows _it.

"So if I punched you right now, you'd be totally okay?" There's a glint in those eyes that Sam does not like, not at all.

"If you punch me, I'll break your arm."

"Right." Deeks rolls his eyes dramatically. "What's Hetty gonna say? She told you to rest."

"What Hetty doesn't know won't hurt her." Sam grits his teeth, ignoring the determined twinge (okay, more than a twinge, but he's a fucking SEAL—bullet wounds are like paper cuts) in his side.

"Dude," says Deeks, his eyes going big and wide and _he's still in Sam's space, dammit_. "Hetty knows everything."

For a split second there, Sam actually expects the tiny little woman to appear in front of him and start scolding him with her finger-wagging and her thinly-veiled-shotgun-oriented threats. She doesn't, and the former SEAL thinks that maybe it's time for a career change, one that doesn't involve guns or super-powerful tiny women or floppy annoying coworkers who follow him around _all the time. _

Deeks starts to whistle something loud and grating that makes Sam want to curl up and die, snapping his fingers along rhythmically.

"Stop," Sam snaps.

Deeks doesn't, and Sam says something derogatory about his mother in Arabic.

"So where're we going?"

Sam actually stops walking and _stares. _"You don't know where we're going?"

"Nope," Deeks says cheerfully.

"You've followed me this whole time and you don't even know where we're going?"

"Does it matter?" The look on Deeks' face is firm and serious and _loyal, _unflinching. It's the kind of face that says _I will follow you wherever you go, doesn't matter where we're going. _

Sam, if he wasn't so _annoyed_, would be kind of touched.

"Yeah, it matters! What if I wanted to be alone, huh? What if I was running an op or something? You just don't _do _that."

Sam's angry, shaking, and the twinge of the wound (paper cut, dammit, _paper cut_) isn't much of a twinge any more.

Deeks blinks at him. "Sure you do," he disagrees. "You do it for Callen. Kensi does it for me. I'll do it for you, when Callen can't."

"I don't _need _anyone to do it," Sam snaps, because he's used to it, he's used to running blindly after a partner who, more often than not, these days, doesn't do the same thing for him. Callen takes care of him, sure, but lately he's been pulling away from all of them, the whole team, even _Hetty, _shrinking back into that little world of his, losing himself in little toy soldiers and half-remembered dreams.

Deeks gives him a look that clearly says _I know you're bullshitting me, stop it now. _"Right," he says. "And I'm Martha Stewart."

Sam stares a bit more.

"What?"

"You're not normal," Sam says slowly, absentmindedly running his fingers over the butterfly bandages and stitching that are currently holding his intestines in his body. Maybe he should sit down, high-profile terrorism case or not.

Deeks nods. "Nope," he agrees, and holy shit he's got that _tone _again, the one that makes him way too much like Hetty for Sam's comfort. "But when _I _got shot, I stayed in bed like a good boy."

(God, Sam can't help but think of some sort of shaggy mutt sitting on a bed, thumping its tail and panting happily.)

Sam feels like he should just keep staring.

"So," Deeks continues, and he's edging so close to Sam now that the ex-SEAL can _feel _it, feel the determination rolling of the other man in waves.

"So," Sam says, because he really doesn't know what else to say.

"How 'bout we take a break, huh?"

"But—" Sam wants to say, "_terrorists._"

"C'mon," Deeks wheedles, and dammit he's doing something suitably pathetic and funny with his face. "There's a nice strip of beach right here. We can sit, watch the waves, maybe play Frisbee, you can still throw with your other arm, that won't rip the stitches—"

The mental sight of Deeks bounding down the beach shouting "I got it!" at a bright pink Frisbee almost makes Sam rip his stitches laughing.

"Okay," Sam's saying before he even thinks about it. His side fucking _hurts. _"Okay."

Deeks fucking _beams _like it's Christmas and bounces, metaphorical tail wagging so hard Sam's afraid it'll metaphorically fall off. If that even makes sense.

"Ha," the floppy annoying man crows. "Kensi owes me dinner. She said you'd kill me after the first five minutes."

Sam closes his eyes. "I hate you," he says.

Deeks laughs and bounds off for just a second to swipe some random beachgoers Frisbee.

Sam shakes his head and sits carefully down in the sand.

After a good thirty minutes of sitting and Frisbee-ing and generally not hunting down terrorists, Deeks flops down besides Sam and pushes his floppy mop out of his eyes.

"Feeling better?" He asks, slightly winded. (Sam might have a hole in him, but he can _throw_.)

"I still hate you," Sam says. "Damn annoying _puppy."_

And they both laugh because they know he doesn't really mean it.

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A/N: Thanks for reading! If you could review, that'd be awesome! Are there any characters you want to see done next?

-Blue


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